


Wade Wilson's House For Wayward Heroes

by Write_like_an_American



Category: Cable and Deadpool, Deadpool (2016), Deadpool (Comics), Deadpool - All Media Types
Genre: Evan brings Nate and Wade back together, Family Feels, Gay Parents, Living Together, M/M, Slow Burn, Wade and Nate adopt Evan, either way, gets happier, starts off sad
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-10
Updated: 2016-09-04
Packaged: 2018-06-01 10:34:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6514612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Write_like_an_American/pseuds/Write_like_an_American
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Come stay at my house," Wade said.</p><p>"It'll be fun," Wade said.</p><p> </p><p>Wade didn't say he'd be absent, galloping out on a different mission each week. He certainly didn't say that his time-travelling ex might come looking for him - or that said time-travelling ex had a very big grudge against Apocalypse...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **CN: suicidal thoughts, depression. These will be present throughout, but this chapter probably contains them most explicitly. Great way to start out, huh? At least things can only improve from here.**

Ah, Queens. Favourite haunt of low-rank criminals; prime spot for muggings; home to whingey underage spiders in every universe but this. Here and now, rather than an irritating web-slinger, New York’s second-largest borough provided habitat to a hero of an altogether different cut.

Or rather, a villain.

***

Evan Sabahnur sat glumly on the windowsill, and leaned his forehead against the glass. The street was bustling with Saturday shoppers. A hotdog stall on the corner rose above the crowd, a dingy red-and-white monolith. Its plastic front was bleached from the sun; the banner had been sheared down one side and flapped feebly in the hot, gusty breeze.

Evan exhaled, obscuring the scene with mist. People-watching was becoming something of a habit. While Wade claimed there was “endless fun” to be found perusing his porn-and-Bea-Arthur collection (not mutually exclusive) and pirating cable from the couple next door, Evan found little could hold his attention these days. He’d try to concentrate on schoolbooks. He’d sit down and tell himself he would get to the end of _Paul Blart_ (another on Wade’s endless recommendation lists) and he’d laugh while doing it. But time and time again, he’d find himself drifting here to this sunlit, drafty spot, where he could watch the world pass on without him.

Because that’s what the world did.

It continued. Come rain or fall, asteroid crash, alien domination, or rise of a wannabe dictator – all problems the X-Men dealt with on a daily basis – the world continued. And so it would continue, for years upon years upon years. And then, like everything else in the universe, that continuation would cease.

Humans had a name for that moment. Dedicated a whole book to it in the Bible, even – but Evan didn’t want to think about that.

So long as he was here, the world was safe.

Evan was a boy in a bubble, trudging through each day on dull routine. He ate cold leftovers for breakfast. He ran a routine: cardio, weights, the works. His neighbor had banged on the floor at first, but Evan accustomed to his schedule and timed his sessions accordingly. (Windowgazing revealed that he was a portly middle-aged black man who worked nine-to-five and adjourned to the bar until last orders, alternating between these venues as regular as clockwork. He was normal. _Human_. Evan’d never exchanged a word with him, and yet he’d never been jealous of anyone more.)

After that, he perused his textbooks until lunch. They seemed out of place in Wade’s musty house, which smelt of disuse and dust mites, with the faintest underlay of rotting tacos that Evan had yet to locate the source off. Storm donated them, Wade claimed – which meant Wade had crept into the mansion at midnight and bounded away with the entire contents of a stock cupboard. As a result, Evan had multiple copies of the same books in such various subjects as math, geology, political science, music, and history of art, all very shiny and smelling of new plastic. Wade had looked so delighted when he presented them that Evan hadn’t had the heart to say only two were at high school level. Doctor McCoy had said he was a smart boy, and that he should strive to further his learning.

With that in mind, he drew away from the window – palm lingering ghostlike on the glass until he had to choose between removing it and dislocating his arm. He selected a tome from Wade’s lopsided shelves.

College grade math. Whoopee.

Evan crossed to the sofa, locating the least moth-eaten cushion by muscle memory alone. The book was deposited on the coffee table. The coffee table, being another of Wade’s less-than-stellar Ikea constructions, in turn deposited book and self on the floor. Evan couldn’t be bothered to rebuild it, for the fourteenth time. Sighing, he shifted the book onto his lap and opened it to the latest page.

His pen was down the crack in the sofa where he’d left it. He’d torn the pages out of the last iteration of this textbook in anger, then panicked and thrown them from the window when he realized they’d only clog the loo (in hindsight, Wade’s thievery hadn’t been a total failure. At least Evan had plenty spares to choose from.) He couldn’t stop dreaming of a face with blue lips. He laughed sometimes at nothing, and he hadn’t talked to anyone in a month.

Evan wondered if this was what going crazy felt like. He’d have to ask Wade, next time he dropped by – although of course that was assuming Wade remembered where he’d stashed him, or remembered him at all.

Evan tried to be disciplined about studying, he really did. This amounted to a futile hour spent convincing himself that the effort would be worth the pay-off, while crunching through problems at the pace of a dead sloth. Every time he concentrated, loose thoughts kicked up beneath the wheels of his mind like dirt under a motorbike.  _Why bother? Algebra won’t change anything. It’s not like you’ll ever fit in._

Evan’s biro skidded across the paper.

The figures that’d been floating in his mind’s eye, almost within grasp, promptly scattered. Evan surveyed the mark he’d left; the slender black gash that split the page end to end. Then, thoughtfully, he added to it. And added, and added, and added some more…

The dense clot of black grew as he scribbled. Cy Twombly would have been proud. Numbers, sums, letters; nothing escaped the furious consumption of his ink. When Evan sat back, panting with tears on his face, he found a page of black zig-zags and an empty pen. After that, it was time for dinner. He ordered takeout with the card Wade had given him (and the memory of his gloved fingers, feverish-warm as the rest of him and textured even through the lycra, was one of those many little lifelines Evan liked to recall when he made his daily decision between applying the razor to his chin or his neck).

Evan tucked into the Chinese, lukewarm from the slow elevator-journey. He used the chopsticks at first, like he always did, and like he always did he found that they spent more time being fumbled and dropped in sticky sauce than lifting food to mouth. He transitioned to knife and fork – one of two pairs of cutlery this safe-house stowed. He always used the same ones; it reminded him that Wade was coming back.

The levering of steaming noodles between his lips (stupid blue apoccy-lips) became mechanical. Evan’s eyes unfocused. He ate until the tub was empty, then rinsed it and threw it into the recycling along with all the others. When the box was overflowing, he’d sneak it down to the collection point at the dead of night – which was also when he accessed the washers and dryers in the apartment complex’s crummy launderette. At Xavier’s Institute, Evan had been visible: painfully so, like an exposed nerve. Here, he was a ghost. It was better that way.

He stowed the spring rolls he’d ordered as a side in the fridge. Inhaled the ripe, greasy stench of junkfood overwhelming Wade’s kitchen-cum-sitting room, and went into the bathroom to brush his teeth, comb his hair, and practice his smile. He could watch more Golden Girls reruns. Or he could go to bed and stave off the tedium through unconsciousness.

That was a no-brainer.

 _Pun intended_ , Evan thought, and giggled to himself as he stripped to change. He looked around furtively afterwards, hounded by recollections from the School where every laugh and scowl had been interpreted as evidence for an impending spiral into genocidal madness. He didn’t have to maintain a banal smile nowadays, though. Not when there was no one there to see it.

Evan let his face relax from its forced neutral, and got into bed. He’d be up with the sunrise to watch the morning commuters, and then his day would wash, rinse, and repeat. And maybe – just maybe, if he prayed extra hard – tomorrow Wade would come.

***

Wade didn’t come. Someone else did.

It was study time. The ruined pages from their last session had just made their exodus. Evan’s aim had improved; he could hit the dumpster even with the added variable of windspeed, which threatened to dash his crumpled paper-ball into the wall and send it ricocheting down the street like tumbleweed in a tornado. Mission accomplished, he was balancing his pen on his nose and thinking about anything but algebra when someone banged on the door.

“Wade?” a voice said.

It was not a voice Evan recognized. He froze nevertheless, until knocking and voice resumed. “Wade, I know you’re in there.” Evan held his peace – if only because Wade’s ridiculous, gravelly voice was impossible to mimic. There followed a sigh. A long sigh. “It’s me. And, before you ask – no, I am not an evil clone. If you’re thinking _of course an evil clone would say that_ , then the last words you said to me were ‘Your fly is down’.”

More silence. Evan held his breath. His thoughts were moving too fast, slipping away from him like slippery minnows, and the harder he tried to grab them the easier they slithered from his grasp. This person knew Wade? Did they know _him?_ How did they know he was here? Were they a superhero?

The sigh was now tinged with aggravation. “I understand you might be angry with me for leaving you, Wade. But the demands of this timeline are strenuous, and I am duty bound to put them first. You know that.”

If Wade were here, he’d tell this goon just what he thought about being  _doodie-bound_ to anyone. If Wade were here, he’d have broken the silence ages ago.

“Wade, you can’t hide from me, remember? I’m a telepath.” Evan’s heart stopped. Then restarted, because if this person were telling the truth they’d have barged in and put a slug in his head the moment they realized what he was. Just like Uncle Custer – _Fantomex_. Whatever this guy’s codename, he was a goon _and_ a liar, and Evan disliked him already.

But he knew the sort of company Wade kept. The man on the other side of the door might well be a merc– which meant it would be very, very bad if Evan, mutantkind’s most wanted, were to be found. He swallowed and shoved his textbook under the cushion. Pushing to his feet, a little unsteady, he began a methodical comb of the room for a place to hide.

When did running for his life become the norm? Oh yeah. It always had been. There was still hope though. If he kept his mouth shut, the man might lose interest and move on…

“Wade.” Or not. Frustration had ceded to worry. “Wade, you’re being very quiet. Are you alright?”

Shit. Evan vacillated between window and bathroom, gnawing his cobalt lips bloody. He dived for the latter. Better no innocent civilians get caught up as collateral – if Evan was doomed, he wasn’t taking anybody with him. As always, his instincts proved correct, and the next time the man spoke it was in warning. “Wade, I’m coming in. I’ll pay for the door.”

 _Maybe not a merc after all_ was all Evan could think, as the thin wood splintered around a broad-knuckled metal fist. He’d never known guns-for-hire to offer reparations of their own free will – but then again, he’d never known a gun-for-hire like Wade Wilson, so perhaps he ought to be more open minded.

For now though, learning to be non-judgmental about one’s occupation came second to fear. Awful fear, the likes of which Evan hadn’t felt since Daken had told him the Truth and eroded the world from beneath his feet. It wasn’t the fear of defeat. Whoever the intruder was, Evan was sure he could take him. What terrified him was the part of him that didn’t want to. Calling it a voice would be too simple (and anyway, Wade would be jealous). It was more of… a _sentiment_. A sentiment which insisted it would be easier, kinder, better for everyone involved, if he offered himself up to the slaughter. It didn’t impart this fact with any vindication. Rather it was soft and gentle, enfolding his body in a comforting embrace as it whispered no one would miss him. And the worst thing was, it was right.

Evan clutched the textbook to his chest. Well? Who would care, at the end of the day? Not Storm and the others – they’d mistrusted him from the start, and after Manhattan Evan had alienated everyone he’d once assumed to be on his side. (Everyone except Wade. But Wade was crazy, and Wade was used to losing people. Evan told himself he’d get over it.)

Which was why when Nathan followed the static fizzle of an unreadable mind to the bathroom and nudged open the door, fully expecting to find a decostumed Deadpool hunched over the toilet and whinging about bad Mexican, he instead discovered a boy with tear streaked cheeks; a boy knelt on the floor with his hands above his head, one still clasping the spine of a flopped-open algebra book.

A boy with Apocalypse’s face.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which Wade gets a phonecall, a HYDRA agent gets trodden on, and Nathan gets his answers.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Wade should never be a hostage negotiator.**

“Explain,” said the cellphone. Wade, who had briefly removed it from his ear to squint at the caller ID – ‘ColonelMilesQuaritch’? Curse his tendency to rejig every name on his contacts list whenever inspiration struck – sandwiched the screen to his temple too late to place the voice. He had to hold it at an awkward angle to prevent it dragging on his mask – experience had proved it more than capable of operating touch-technology, with or without his consent. The same with the inside of his pouches. Wade’s hamstrings still smarted from that time he butt-dialled Wolverine.

“Come again?” he asked.

No reply.

“Uh, n’yello?”

Nada. Just some heavy mouth-breathing of the type that foretold aneurysm or orgasm. Wade pulled a face. Another fanboy. How did they keep getting his number? You’d almost think he’d graffitied it over every toilet block in the city. Someone must want someone else dead – which Wade was all fine and dandy with on _principle_ , but as an Avenger (‘sub bench’, Clint would say, but Clint was just jealous his super-power was _marksmanship_ ) he had to set a good example, if only to stop Rogers’ whinging.

“Whoever you are,” he said huffily, “I’ll have you know I’m a classy man. You can’t go treating me like some two-dime gunslinger. Why, I own my own franchise!” He paused. No word was interjected edgeways. Wade groaned – he hated the silent treatment. Mostly because it worked every time. “Okay, okay, you got me. So I _do_ still kill people. But it’s not for money! I’m into pro-bono nowadays: that’s totally better for the soul, right? So if you’re calling to inquire about my business rates, might as well swipe left. If you’re calling for _other reasons,_ you’d be better off trying here …” He rattled out a number (one of the few he knew from memory). He was kind enough to include a recommendation for Candy and April, and the code from the back of a gift voucher. Then, feeling mighty proud, he hung up.

There. Regular little Citizens’ Advice Bureau. Why, if Cable were here, he might be _proud_ of him.

Although of course, in that hypothetical circumstance wherein Cable reverse-dissolved into existence besides him (Wade turned around just to check), he wouldn’t let him say so. Firstly, because he’d be too busy punching him in the face. Secondly, because ‘I’m proud of you’ in Nate speak always, _always_ , precluded goodbye.

Thinking of that future-hopping overpowered hunk of meat-and-shoulderpads never failed to bum him out. Good mood killed, Wade scowled as he tried to locate the rag he kept to wipe blood from his blades. “Where’d I put it? Where’d I – oh for fuck’s sake. Why bother with all these pouches if you can’t remember what’s in them? This is your fault, Liefeld; you and your _stupid_ muscles and _ridiculous_ feet…”

The rant was cut off by the Hydra agent he was standing on. He moaned, and pulled a hanky from his pocket, raising it between broken digits. “Thank you,” said Wade, because politeness never hurt. “I’ll wash it and bring it back.”

“Until next time,” gurgled the Hydra agent. “Tell Bob I said ‘hi’.”

“Did he ever get that dental plan sorted?”

“I hope so…” The hydra agent rotated his jaw and spat out a tooth. “I really, really hope so.”

“Hey, the gap adds character. As does working for a megalomaniac – there, you can put that on the skills section of your CV when you apply for a decent job. Preferably one that doesn’t involve me and my friends creaming you every other month.”

“Thank you, Mister Wilson.” Wade nodded with magnanimous grace. This hero thing wasn’t as hard as he’d thought. Certainly not as tricky as _someone_ had made it seem…

…Someone bearing startling resemblance to That Guy From The Movie With The Sexy Blue People (blue people who didn’t have hammer-wielding older brothers or whistle-controlled arrows, to clarify). Wade dropped his rag. Had his reflexes not been artificially honed (useful for swatting mosquitoes; annoying when proving your masculinity by sitting through cheesy horror B-movies without flinching, squeaking, or hugging Blind Al) his katanas would’ve followed suit.

Colonel Miles Quaritch.

 _Priscilla_.

Then, for the second time in as many minutes, the dulcet theme to _Friendship is Magic_ echoed through the gutted HYDRA base. Seems the old man had remembered how to dial back. If Wade didn’t want to think about Nathan, he wanted to talk to him even less. Best to rip the bandage off fast then – but he couldn’t pick up immediately; that’d look desperate. Scraping brains off his toecap (and onto the Hydra agent), Wade channeled his inner zenpool. He counted to five, and pressed ‘receive’ only after he'd mouthed the last number.

“New phone,” he drawled, twirling a katana in lieu of a curly cord. “Who dis?”

Nathan being Nathan, cut to the point with the efficiency of one accustomed to tuning out Wade’s babble. Oh, how Wade hated that. How Wade hated that Nathan knew him better than anyone, and while the _vice_ was undoubtedly _versa_ , Wade still could scarcely get a grip on the slippery telepath before he went whizzing off to save the world/nobly sacrifice himself. Again. But –

Wade’s mind stuttered on its tangent. “Wait, _what?_ ”

“I asked,” said Nathan, “why there is a boy on your bathroom floor who looks like Apocalypse.”

 _Evan_. Shit. “You broke into my safehouse? Now I’m never gonna get that deposit back…”

“I could feel a mind I couldn’t read within. When it didn’t respond to me, I assumed its owner was either sulking or bled out.”

 _Aw,_ crowed that annoying little voice in Wade’s mind; the one that tended to be right. _He does care!_ Perhaps so, but the feeling was far from mutual. Wade drew his katana in vicious zig-zag, wishing (not for the first time) that it made that nifty Kill-Bill _fwoosh_ when it sliced the air. “Healing factor. Remember?”

“It’s failed you before.”

“So’ve you, but you don’t see me calling you out on it.” So much for not holding a grudge. Oh wait – Wade had never signed up for that. “Okay. Boy on the bathroom floor. First thing's first Nate, I gotta tell you – this isn’t what it looks like. I’m not starting up a kinky underage sex-dungeon. And if I were, I wouldn’t invite you.” Even _joking_ about sleeping with jaibait made Wade vomit a little in his mouth. Who knows why so many people liked to write him as if he was into that shit. He reeled up the mask and spat before continuing. “Tell me you haven’t shot him? Or pissed him off? The two are kinda the same thing; fair warning.”

“I’m tempted to call your bluff on that.”

“Then at least put me on speaker, so I can talk Evan down before he guts you in return. He might look all cute and innocent, but… No wait. He actually is very cute when you get to know him. And _moderately_ innocent. I mean, who is, these days? You just try and throw that stone, Mr resident-of-a-glass-greenhouse. I’mma retaliate with _boulders_.”

Nathan didn’t bother correcting him that all greenhouses were glass. Probably didn’t have those in his swanky far-off future. “I don’t see an explanation forthcoming.”

“The One Who Knows, unknowing? No wait, wrong franchise…”

“Wade.”

“Okay.” Wade flicked the final congealing blood drops off the end of his blade and hilted it in a smooth over-the-shoulder slide. “You got me. I’m hiding this kid who Fantomex killed, then cloned and regrew so that he had a chance to overcome his Evil DestinyTM – wait… TM, TM, TM… How do I make the letters small? Ah, ™! There we go. But yeah; kid ain’t so bad. Bit blue about the lips, but nothing some Lasting Finish Matte by Kate Moss can’t fix. Wait, do I need another ™ there?”

“ _Wade_.” That was Nathan’s dangerous voice. When Nathan used that voice, small eastern European civilizations crumbled and dictators fell to their knees (or onto their faces as the case may be, with Domino’s bullet lodged in their pre-frontal cortex). When Nathan used that voice, he would raise a metal behemoth from the depths of the ocean with the power of his mind. When Nathan used that voice, he forewent all emotional connections and acted for the Greater Good.

Nothing could stop him then – except perhaps Apocalypse. But before it came to that, Wade might be able to exert a little leverage of his own. So Wade did what Wade did best, and babbled.

“You’d be making a mistake. I mean, greatest nature/nurture experiment in the history of ever! Can you imagine how pissed off the psychiatrists would be? You’ve gotta be careful around those guys, Nathan. They’ll get in your head, twist it, mould it, bop it...”

“That shouldn’t be a problem,” Nathan said. “I’m already in theirs.” Stupid telepaths. Smartasses, the lot of them. If Nathan broke less permanently, Wade’d snap his spine and shave him bald for the shits and giggles.

“Okay, let’s try this tack. Look into his eyes, Nate. Them big, blue, shiny eyes. They look like the eyes of a killer to you?”

Nathan cocked his head. “I have been a telepath since childhood, Wade. Facial expressions are not my forte – and physiognomy is a long-outdated science.”

“Physio-what? Never mind. Sure, Evans had his slip ups. Haven’t we all? But I seem to remember you giving _me_ a second chance.”

“And a third,” said Nathan flatly, which was unnecessary. “And a fourth.” That was even moreso. Wade pouted. “Wade, just answer me this. Is it him?”

”Why?” Face closing off behind the mask, Wade stepped off the Hydra agent – the wound his weight had been compressing immediately started to gush, but it was less a fountain than a trickle, so he might still survive. Wade would have rescued him properly (Bob could use a playmate). But alas: he had bigger, Nathan-shaped fish to fry. “So you can play Judge Judy? Decide if he lives or dies? Wait – Judge Judy’s the wrong metaphor. Uh…”

“Judge Dredd?” supplied Nathan. That was why he was a keeper. ( _Had been_.) If he didn’t have hands full with cellphone and katana, Wade would’ve clapped.

“I _knew_ you were only pretending to sleep through that movie!”

“Wade. The question.”

Unfortunately, any keeper-ly attributes that had survived the Messiah War arc would be rendered inconsequential if Nathan shot the closest thing to a son Wade had. Wade strode through the desecrated base. He nodded to groaning mooks as he passed, causing the few capable of movement to scramble for somewhere dark to cower. With his blood-slicked costume and loping gait – marred by the limp from where a goon’s lucky shot had taken out his Achilles’ tendon; damn plasma bolts always took longer to heal – he could’ve been a warrior returning from the battlefield. That the opponents had been minimum wage criminals-for-hire decreased the satisfaction of victory somewhat. But Wade figured they’d done their best. Emptying his pouches until he found his wallet, he stuffed a crisp five dollar into the hand of the nearest HYDRA agent – bending his dislocated fingers by force when they refused to grip of their own accord. “I had fun. Here’s a tip – buy yourself something pretty, and let’s do this again sometime.”

“Wade,” issued forth from the other end of the line. Being the only person willing or able to work with Deadpool for extended periods of time, Nathan had earned himself a reputation as a man of infinite patience – which made this a great Aesop for why one should never make such assumptions.

Wade heaved the door one-handed. The base emerged onto the docks. Wade termed such exits as being in the authentic Batman-style, although no one else knew what he was talking about. (Thinking about it, that wasn’t unusual). A long thin tunnel designed for ease of repelling attack (a lot of good it had done them) reached its terminus in a corrugated metal freight container. It seemed inconspicuous enough. Going by the dockworkers’ horrified stares, it was the back entrance.

“Please, Nate,” Wade said quietly, shooting obscene hand gestures until they quit eavesdropping. Heaven knew what they were gawking at; he still had his mask on. “When a sod’s got _me_ for his guardian, y’know he’s had it rough. Can’t you feel sympathy for him, if nothing else?”

There was silence. Wade counted the seconds – and his breaths – until he heard the faint but unmistakable whir as Nathan’s gun depowered. It was the sort of noise that made you realize it had been there all along only when it was absent. “If you’re lying, Wade…”

“You wound me, sir!”

“If you’re lying,” Nathan continued, obstinate as any time-travelling supersoldier, “I will deal with this, the moment I suspect this boy to be a danger. Do you understand me?”

He knew Nathan was many things – entirely convinced of his own opinions and means of operation, for one; excellent in bed for another. But he’d never thought of him as a child-killer. Wade swallowed. “Read you loud and clear. So I guess this’ll mean you’ll be hanging around for a while then?” Curse him for feeling _hope_.

“If this boy is who I think, he constitutes the greatest possible threat to the timestream. I must remain until that threat is eradicated.” And while Nathan’s gun might not cause more than a fleshwound on the reincarnation of his ancestral forefather, who knew what strings Nate would pull, what forces he would gather and convince to his side, if he ever thought Evan posed genuine danger? There was nothing for it.

“Then I’m in too,” Wade said with an air of assured finality. That he made his bold statement while plucking out a wedgie was irrelevant (should’ve known not to fight in silk lingerie – they felt so good, but only until they were sawing you in half hotdog-style). “I like Evan, Nate. And… and I know you aren’t going to put much stock by my moral compass, not after everything…” Nate’s harrumph sounded affirmative, albeit guilty. Wade tried not to feel too pleased about that. “He’s a good kid. Everyone doubts him, everyone looks at him and immediately, the first thing they do is hate him. But he tries so hard. He tries so, so hard. Sure, sometimes he fucks up, sometimes things go wrong. Sometimes people die. But he never stops trying. That’s what matters, right?”

In the pause that followed, Wade could visualize Nate stripping his blather to its essential core, rummaging the pieces, and evaluating them with the critical eye of an actuarial analyst. He had no idea what outcome to expect, but it wasn’t the softness that laced Nathan’s next words.

“I believe so, Wade,” he rumbled. It was sinful, how that warm husk made him putty. The thought of spending the duration of Nathan’s visit reveling in it made his guts tingle – that, or his last Taco was going to haunt him. Him, Nate, and Evan, holing up cosy-like and getting domestic. What could possibly go wrong?

He pushed up one sleeve, wriggling it against his belt so he didn’t have to remove the phone from his ear, and checked the Adventure Time watch (he only had it because of the pun; he swore). “Uh, Nate? It’s a long walk home and I gave my last five dollars to a HYDRA agent.” Nathan was rolling his eyes. Wade knew it. He could feel the weight of that exasperation over the phone – and, unless he was going full-loco, it was tinged with fondness. He perked up. “You think your DNA will have stayed in my system from the last time we fucked?”

That fondness became all-out amusement. “I’m afraid not.”

“Bodyslide by two!”

“Sorry, Wade.”

Growling, Wade broke into a sprint. Getting a taxi in New York at this hour? It’d be faster by rooftop. The remaining dockworkers who hadn’t beat a hasty retreat, unnerved by the amount of dried blood flaking from his outfit, got out of his way. Wade returned the favor where he could, and shouted apologies when it proved impossible. “Okay – okay! I’m coming. Don’t kill him until I get there!”

The smile in Nathan’s voice warmed him like the sun. “I’ll do my best,” he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **This came faster than expected! Please leave comments if you're reading - think of it as payment for awesome fic! x**


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Congratulations to Tess who guessed this chapter's plot! Sorry, my gotg stuff tends to be less painfully predictable; I'm writing this on the fly! X'D Nevertheless, I hope you enjoy.**

“So,” said Evan, nervously glancing at the hulking half-metal behemoth who weighted the entire sofa in his direction. “How did you and Wade meet?”

The cyborg’s frown pinched impossibly tighter. “No talking,” he said. His arms would have been folded, were it not for the impressive amount of pouches strapped to his chest. And the size of the gun he was holding, of course. 

Evan swallowed. _No talking_. He could do that. Sure, the fact that he sat besides a person – a real, living, breathing person! – made words boil up his throat of their own accord, an eruption as inevitable as Yellowstone. But that this person could and would shoot him if he misbehaved, provided ample motivation to keep his mouth shut. Regardless of the cyborg’s animosity, Evan wanted to regale him with his life story, comment on every detail of the room, explain the curious habits of the people he spied on from his window as they lived out their unaware lives… 

He wondered if this was what Wade felt all the time. 

*** 

When the cyborg first barged into the bathroom, filling the doorway like muscle in a tight shirt, he’d sworn in a language Evan didn’t recognise and yanked the gun from his back in a practiced motion, the smoothness of which was interrupted by the shower curtain. After disentangling himself (and nearly ripping the damn thing off the wall in the process, for which Evan would’ve been grateful; there was nothing more unnerving than tiny Deadpool-faces watching you poop) the barrel had been levelled one-handed at Evan’s forehead. 

“Who are you?” the cyborg had growled. 

Evan, seeing the end rushing towards him in a dense scattogram of plasma shot, shut his eyes and told the truth. “Apocalypse.” 

That had given the cyborg pause. His gun didn’t waver, but the glow from its core receded until it no longer made Evan’s retinas smart. “What?” he said. 

Evan repeated himself. “I’m Apocalypse. If you’re going to kill me, please get it over with.” His wrist was stiff from holding the textbook at an odd angle. Would he piss himself, if he was shot? Or would the cyborg’s gun – almost as wide as Evan’s torso and easily as long – obliterate the contents of his bladder along with everything else? Well, he supposed. If this made a mess, at least he was on tiles. Wade could sponge off his remains when he next swung by. Far less hassle than replacing the carpet. 

“You’re a child,” the cyborg said. It sounded like he was trying to convince himself. 

“Sixteen, actually. More than capable of global destruction.” 

“A sixteen year old Apocalypse.” 

“That’s right.” 

“In Wade’s safehouse.” 

Evan sucked his cheeks. “Yeah.” 

There followed a brief silence. “Belle,” the cyborg said, twisting so his mouth addressed someone to his left while his eyes – and gun – stayed trained on their target. Evan frowned. He hadn’t heard anyone else enter the room. “Please dial Deadpool. Work number, not house.” 

*** 

Evan wondered how far the metal extended into the cyborg’s skull. He only heard half of the conversation, as if the AI – that was what the woman tattooed on the titanium bicep was, he was sure; that or he was hallucinating her waving – relayed its message directly to his eardrums. By the time the dialling tone droned again (the first incidence having been followed by a darkening of the cyborg’s expression, as if he was contemplating shooting Evan there and then out of spite) Evan’s knees were aching. His ragged tracksuit provided little in the way of cushioning. He wriggled on the cold porcelain, trying to alleviate cramp without earning the cyborg’s attention – which would surely be followed by a plasmabolt through the brain. 

He was unsuccessful. 

The cyborg’s eyes narrowed. They were both blue, but whereas one was very blue, one was very, very blue, sclera, iris and pupil alike engulfed in glowing cyan. “Stop moving,” he rumbled. 

Evan ducked his head. “Sorry.” His sore fingers peeled apart of their own accord though, and the textbook dropped, thudding off his shoulder on the way. The cyborg flinched more than he did – which was funny, because Evan had never thought robots capable of fear, no matter how rapidly it was stifled. But then, he hadn’t thought them capable of overcompensating with anger either. 

“What did I just say?” the cyborg snarled. His lip pulled up, revealing silver teeth in a metal gum. Must be wearing a synthskin over part of his face – if not all of it. 

The textbook pages settled a fraction too slow, as if the gravity had been dialled down. “I didn’t mean to,” Evan said. “I’m sorry.” The barrel boring through his temple retreated. Just far enough that its ominous radiance was visible in the corner of Evan’s eye. 

“…You say that a lot.” 

“I’m s –“ Evan caught himself. 

“I’ve never known an Apocalypse to apologize.” 

“Would you like me to blow up the city to prove it to you?” The barrel returned. Evan, apathy fluxing into confidence, raised his gaze to meet the cyborg’s mismatched one. “That was a joke.” 

“Never known an Apocalypse to joke, either.” 

Evan’s hamstring twinged. He shifted without realizing – then froze, all-to-aware of the proximity of gun to face. But no trigger compressed. No blast decapitated him, spraying liquefied bone and brain gunk across Wade’s shower curtain. Instead, the cyborg wriggled his bulk through the door frame in the opposite direction, and, once he had Evan’s attention, gestured that he might stand. 

“Thank you,” mumbled Evan, scrambling to his feet. He knew better than to lower his hands yet. “Um. You’re not interrogating me.” 

The cyborg’s stare read expressionless as ever, yet Evan thought he caught amusement flashing in its depths. “Was that a question or a statement, Apocalypse?” 

Oh god. It was like dealing with Scott all over again. Of all the senior X-Men, Cyclops had been by far his least favourite: too stuck up, for one; too much of a smartass for another. Thinking about it, didn’t this guy look a bit like Scott? Must be the lighting. “Both? I think?” 

“As I can’t believe a word out of your mouth, I’m waiting until Wade arrives.” This time, the humour wasn’t understated. “Congratulations. You’re officially less trustworthy than Deadpool.” 

Evan shrugged. Didn’t matter to him. He was used to it. 

Only, by the time the clock on the wall declared an hour had rolled by and Wade seemed no closer to arriving, Evan was getting stiff again and the cyborg showed the first signs of impatience. “It doesn’t take this long for Wade to cross the city.” 

Evan’s heart shrank in his chest. “You don’t think something’s happened to him, do you?” Whoever this guy was, he evidently held a modicum more respect for Deadpool than the majority of the vigilante population. He’d shoot Evan to get him out the way so he could search for his missing friend with a light conscience. But the cyborg shook his head. 

“This is Wade we’re talking about. He’ll be fine.” 

“Physically.” 

At that addendum, the grooves of the cyborg’s scowl dug themselves deeper into his face. “…What?” 

“He’ll be fine. Physically.” Evan rocked from foot to foot, socked toes skidding on the tiles. “His body heals, but his mind doesn’t.” 

“And you know this how?” 

“…Does this count as interrogation? Shouldn’t we wait for Wade to arrive?” 

Aggravation clouded the cyborg’s expression. _This is it_ , Evan thought, preparing himself for the hundredth time. _Today you die_. But then the barrel slowly tracked away from him, down to menace Wade’s carpet – which admittedly was a putrid shade of pink, and deserved everything it got. It didn’t swoop so low that the cyborg wouldn’t be able to rectify himself in a second: given the strength compounded in bulging biceps flesh and metal alike, it was no wonder he hoisted his gun like it was styrofoam. But the hairs on Evan’s nape lay flat again. 

“Out the bathroom,” he ordered. “If Wade’s dawdling, we might as well sit in comfort.” 

Under his watchful glare, Evan scooped up his textbook and tiptoed to the sofa. He took his favourite cushion – after a brief internal debate over whether he should play the polite host and offer it up. It wouldn’t make much difference though; the cyborg’s bulk displaced stuffing through every threadbare hole, seat sagging under him until the springs groaned. He fished the remote from the floor, and before Evan could warn him, turned on the TV. 

_“Your heart is true: you're a pal and a confidant…”_

Groaning, the cyborg addressed his AI once more. “Belle. Hack the satellite, please. Put on the news – I need to find out what year it is.” 

“2016,” Evan answered. He shut his mouth when an eyebrow arched in his direction. Oh yeah. Trust issues. But once the cyborg had ascertained all he needed from the depressing parade of mutant hate-crimes, barely fended off extra-terrestrial invasions, and property damage, he let Evan change the channel to House Hunters. Perhaps he wasn’t so bad after all. 

*** 

Wade showed up with fanfare. He was incapable of arriving in any other way. If this had been a comedy show, his presence would be accompanied by a tootle on the trumpet and a percussive crescendo, culminating in a cymbal crash as his face popped into view through the hole left by Cable’s fist, wide-eyed as a meerkat. “Priscilla? In person? In _my_ humble abode?” 

Nathan sighed. “Come in, Wade. And shut the door.” 

“Why?” Wade wriggled his head between the splintered boards. “You want privacy?” 

Eyes rolling, Cable concentrated briefly, and spoke again. Wade squinted at his motioning mouth. “Didn’t catch that, darling.” Once he’d stepped across the threshold, Nathan’s voice returned, smooth and deep as a lake of molasses. 

“ – telekinetic barrier, trapping all sound waves. So now, Wade. Explain.” 

“Explain why I was so late? Sure!” Wade presented his arms, laden with polystyrene food boxes. “Seeing as we’re having us a family reunion, I figured we ought to celebrate in style!” He cracked the lid on the top container. The aroma of roasted chickpeas wafted about the room. “I got falafel. Don’t you love that word? Fuh- _la_ -ful. Lavi- _oh_ -sa, not Lavio- _sah_. Hey Evan, old buddy, old pal. Where’d you keep the cutlery?” 

Evan, wordless, pointed. Wade bounded over, discovered there to be only two forks, and shrugged. “I’ll eat with my hands. Hey kid, you gotta learn about hospitality.” 

“It’s your house,” Evan managed. Wade, doing his usual whirlwind impression, crossed the room in four quick strides and deposited one box in Evan’s hands and another on the sofa arm when Cable made no move to accept it. 

“Mine’s the overdone one. Best check and make sure – ooh yes!” He punched the air. “Right first time! And they burnt the edges. Crispy on the outside, creamy on the in, just the way I like it…” He flung himself into the cramped space between them, wriggling until ass hit cushion and kicking his legs over Nathan’s lap. “Alright, you two! No need to stand on ceremony. Dig in!” 

Evan and Nathan shared a glance over his head. Wade’s mask was dragged to his nose bridge, loose material crumpling around the dog-collar at the back. The crunching of charcoal between his teeth almost drowned out Cable as he cleared his throat and got to business. “Wade. Perhaps you have yet to notice, but we’re sharing a sofa with a boy who bears a remarkable resemblance to Apocalypse. You remember Apocalypse? The man who destroyed my home, who destroyed _everything_ in a future far from now…?” 

Wade, swallowing noisily, wagged unctuous fingers under Cable’s nose. “No need to be sarcastic, honeybunch. I’m listening _intently_. Evan?” Evan, morosely picking at his falafel – he was starting to hate the taste of fried food – jerked to a seated attention. 

“Yes?” 

Wade ruffled his hair. His gloves smelt of gunpowder and grill grease. “Oh, you are a precious munchkin. No need to be so jumpy. This here’s my… Uh…” 

“Divorcee,” Nathan supplied. His mouth did that quasi-amused twitchy thing again, and when Evan blushed blue-black, figuring for himself what that word entailed, it grew into an all-out smirk. “It’s a long story.” 

Wade finished his falafel. He belched and reached for Nathan’s. “One we’ll have to regale you with at some other time. For now, kiddo, you best go shut yourself in the bedroom. Mommy and daddy have to yell at each other, and I don’t want sweetums getting scared.” 

Sweetums would protest that he was already plenty scared, and that at sixteen such pet names were demeaning. But then Wade took a deep breath, wiped the oil from his scarred lips, and ripped open the Velcro seam of his mask. 

His head emerged like an infant fresh from the womb. Misshapen and lumpy, raw abscesses glistened between knotting ropes of scar tissue. The smell was intense as always; nauseating and bodily, granulation and sweat mixed with dead skin, sweet rot, and just a little pus. The falafel went a way towards disguising it. No wonder Wade ate so much Mexican. 

“Run along,” he said, once the mask was clutched on his lap. He didn’t look at Evan. Evan recognized it wasn’t rudeness, so much as Wade struggling with the urge to hide his face, or gut the both of them for staring. “And, uh. Evan?” 

Of course. Regeneration ate calories like nothing else. Anticipating the request, Evan handed over his half-eaten meal before standing. Wade accepted it gratefully, but refrained from guzzling. He stacked the box within his polished empties and reached out, hesitating before he touched Evan’s wrist. 

“You weren’t lonely, were you?” he asked. “Here by yourself, I mean? I gave you food and TV and study stuff, but I wish I could’ve found you some friends. It’s important for a kid your age.” 

As tempting as it was to snap and tell Wade exactly what those dragging days of solitude had done to him, that would only result in some poor sod being kidnapped and threatened into keeping Evan company. He forced a smile and squeezed Wade’s hand. “I’m fine,” he lied. “Thank you for looking after me.” 

It was what Wade wanted to hear. His face relaxed, scars rushing to fill the tense wrinkles. “Knew you were a tough kid!” He smacked Evan cheerfully on the thigh, oblivious to the wince. “Now run along, Forest. Me and mommy have some fighting to do.” 

Nathan scoffed through his nose. Evan, sizing up Wade as he sprawled across the home invader and shovelled falafel down his gullet, tipped his head in confusion. “I thought you were the mommy – ow!” 

Wade readied the next fork to trebuchet. “Don’t assume! My name’s on top now.” He sniffed, sounding as prissy as one could conceivably be when slathered in falafel-juice and perched on the lap of a white-haired giant. He turned his aggrieved gaze upwards. “You see, Nate? You ought to be glad you were time-capsuled into a cockroach-war – look what happens when kids are raised by the X-Men! Despicable. We’ve got a lot of work to do...” 

Nathan let the babble rush over him. He was looking at Evan. Oddly, his analytical glower didn’t disturb him; it was coupled with the strangest sense that Nathan was seeing _him_ , rather than Apocalypse: The Smaller Model. But then he blinked and that sense dissipated. Sighing, Evan quashed the tiny spark of hope and strode for his bedroom. 

“You know,” Nathan said, cutting off Wade’s ramble and propping his square jaw on a steel-grey palm. “For once Wade, I think you’re right.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please leave comments. They're all that motivate me!**


	4. Chapter 4

The yelling went something like this.

“So, you murder children now? You really have let yourself go. The whole _messiah_ shtick didn’t work out?” 

“I’ve missed you too, Wade.” 

A brief lull. Then the sound of Wade swatting repeatedly at a broad metal arm. “No! No, no, no, no, _no!_ ” You don’t get to play that game. Not when you’re the one always leaving.” Evan wondered if clearing his throat would angle the conversation onto more important topics – i.e., whether he would end today as molecules in the shape of a person, or molecules that weren’t. At the very least, it’d remind Wade that his walls were far from soundproof. 

Luckily the cyborg – Nathan; or was it ‘Priscilla’? – seemed an old hand at steering Wade’s blather. “You know I have a duty to the future,” he said. “And that duty involves preventing Apocalypses from ever gaining power.” 

“By murdering brats before they’ve done anything wrong?” The smacks became punctuated with crunches. Wade must’ve hit hard enough to break his knuckles. “That’s so very Minority Report of you, Nate. S’no wonder the _Uncanny X-Force_ writers put you in that arc – y’know, where me and my homies go to the future and I eat bad peaches and you n’me and Hope have this cute cohabitation thing going on. Some folks say it was a blatant rip-off, but I thought it was more a, y’know, a _fond homage._ A shout-out. That’s a TV-trope, right?” 

The rhythmic punches ceased. Evan, ear pressed to door, imagined Nathan’s large fingers encircling Wade’s wrists, holding him so he wouldn’t injure himself further. “I’m not sure what you’re referring to, Wade. I’m not sure if it’s relevant either. Now, about this boy. I want you to tell me everything. From the start.” 

Evan dug his nails into the plasterboard. He resisted the urge to bang his head off it until he gave himself concussion. He didn’t want to hear this. The ugly, stitched-together, twice-stirred-and-thrice-fucked chronicle of his life. It was a relief when Wade shifted his weight, tortured sofa springs screeching, and said: “Put your barrier around us, Nate. Just us. The kid shouldn’t have to listen.” 

Evan’d heard the story before. It started as all good villain stories should: with tragedy, lies, and betrayal. Fantomex (not Uncle Cluster, never Uncle Cluster) had casually popped him in the head, then regrown him from scratch – as if his life meant nothing, as if he was just the latest host of a bundle of DNA that everyone cared about far more than they cared about him. 

Sometimes Evan dreamt of it. He’d bolt awake at night, a scream trembling behind thick blue lips. It was always the same memory: himself, suspended in bile-yellow amniotic fluid, immobilized in a net of wires and breathing apparatus, eyes sealed shut and light slithering through the thin membrane. 

Evan didn’t know if he was more afraid of that tank or that he couldn’t remember anything before it. 

Fantomex liked to pretend he’d saved him, when he shot him. Evan alone suspected the truth: that Fantomex had killed one child and grown a whole new one. No matter how skilfully made, no matter how genetically identical, a copy was a copy. If there was one thing worse than being Apocalypse it was being some stupid caricature of him, resurrected to prove a point about nature and nurture and kept alive for the sake of a murderer’s conscience. 

Evan sunk down the wall as the sound drained from Wade and Nathan’s voices. _Really,_ he thought, hugging his knees. _Things would be better for everyone if Fantomex had left me dead._

*** 

“And _that’s_ how I became an honorary spice girl! No wait; Avenger. That’s what I meant. Honorary _Avenger_. Speaking of, Tony hasn’t sent me that badge he promised. Do you think I should poke him on facebook?” 

Nathan, who’d listened with the impressive stoicism of one who was either accustomed to Wade’s rambling, or able to sleep with both eyes open, hummed and shook his head. “Probably best not. You don’t want to blow your cover.” 

Now that was just rude. Wade crossed his arms. “And what makes you think I’m catfishing? Doesn’t it seem believable that Tony Stark would accept my friend request?” 

A brief scan of this era’s interweb informed Nathan of ‘catfishing’s current use – handy little site, that _urbandictionary_. “Because,” he said, nudging the legs on his lap until Wade realized he was still mad at him and removed them, “A certain poorly-photoshopped supermodel whose face bears startling resemblance to that of a young Bea Arthur keeps sending Wolverine attachments on dog grooming.” 

Wade’s expression became artfully innocent. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” 

“We all know it’s you, Wade. Wolverine would unfriend you –“ 

“Never! We’re buds!” 

“- But he’s got a bet riding on Tony working out _Chastity’s_ true identity next year. He doesn’t want to give him any early clues.” 

“Huh?” Wade, bouncing into a crouch and steadying himself in the sofa arm so as not to slide into the sinkhole caused by Nate’s heavy metal ass, prodded Nate in the arm. His finger, healed from his last assault, snapped again. It wobbled in a disturbingly comic fashion as Wade brandished it under Nathan’s nose. “Ex- _cuse_ me? Did I hear that right? You have a Pool on this? Do I need to change my superhero-name to match? Catfishpool doesn’t sound as catchy, but I could make it work.” A pause. “Oh, and it’s _Cherry_ , not _Chastity_. Who d’you think I am; some two-dollar whore?” 

“I seem to remember you telling me that you’d, and I quote, _‘do anything for a Klondike Bar. Well, maybe not a Klondike Bar. Maybe for enchiladas’?”_

“That was me _seducing_ you. It’s different.” Wade sighed, spreading extravagantly over his half of the sofa. With his head tipped to rest atop the rear cushions, he looked like a stray cat basking in sunlight: scrappy and scarred and insouciant, yet still with a feline elegance that informed every line of his body, encased as it was in skintight bloodied uniform. 

Nate wouldn’t mind seeing him out of it. But the time for that was long over. It had died when Providence did, and a part of Nathan had been lost along with it. 

He cleared his throat. “What I’ve gleaned thus far from your story, is that Apocalypse –“ 

“Evan,” Wade corrected. 

“ _Apocalypse_ , is thought to be safe because he has been raised in an environment that stressed humans had the capacity for kindness? A fake environment? A simulacra – one which he now _knows_ was all mirage?” 

Wade could see where this was going. “Ya-eees?” 

“And you believe – what? He’s _forgiven_ you for that?” 

“Hey!” A languid flex of muscles introduced Wade’s bootsole to Nathan’s chin. “Wasn’t _me_ who gave my precious dumpling a false start. Blame Fantomex for that. For the record, I was really pissed off. I didn’t speak to him for like, an hour. Possibly half.” 

The boot had something chunky and mildly viscous crusted in the treads. Grimacing, Nathan shoved it away. “But his powers… What he can do…” 

“Oh yeah, he’s the real deal, alright. Heck, he had the chance to kill me after Daken spilled the beans – that’s a point; perhaps Cherry should start sending Wolvie childcare manuals instead. Or a dummy’s guide on how to wrap it before you tap it –“ 

Wade had the remarkable ability to sidetrack even the most important conversations. Nate relished the non-sequiturs– he’d be lying if he claimed he hadn’t missed them. “He didn’t though? Kill you, I mean?” 

“No.” For once, Wade sounded entirely serious. “He didn’t. He saved us, Nathan. He saved us all. He could’ve chosen not to – he had every reason to! – but he didn’t. Isn’t that what being a hero is? It’s not who you are or how you were raised. Sure, that _helps_. But at the end of the day, heroes only have four or five opportunities to make a difference – Fuck.” He buried his head in his hands. “I’m quoting Colossus. Shoot me now.” 

“Piotr would be honoured.” 

“What, from beyond the grave?” 

“Um…” As far as Nathan was aware, Piotr was alive – all seven titanium big-brotherly feet of him. 

Wade rolled to face him, scowling. “Okay, okay. Wrong continuity. _Is_ there continuity in this story? I don’t know. The writer certainly doesn’t.” 

They sat quietly a moment longer, the only noise the grumpy click of Wade’s tongue off his teeth. A lesser man would’ve attempted to make sense of that last sentence; Nate simply let the oddities sail by. He wondered how long this peace would last. 

He’d once known Wade to keep his mouth shut for ten minutes, with the aid of a bribe. That bribe had been applying WD-40 to his techno-organic mesh (heavens knew why Wade had wanted to; Nate had tried to tell him it didn’t need lubrication, which resulted in a giggling Wade, a squirt of oil direct to his eye, and a loud squeal of “ _money shot!_ ”). However, Nathan doubted such a carrot would have any effect today. 

Well, it _might_. But it wouldn’t be fair. Sure, Wade would give enthusiastic consent and ride him right there on the sofa until he either milked Nathan’s cock dry or broke his concentration, fracturing sound barrier so their moans echoed up and down the elevator shaft across the hall. 

Wade flirted with everyone he met – moreso if he knew it annoyed them. There were precious few among those he’d ever actually fuck. As far as Nathan recalled (the list being a common recitation during Wade’s dreamy post-coital haze) that ‘few’ consisted of Brad Pitt, Bea Arthur (Wade remained adamant her death was an elaborate hoax), Outlaw, Terry, Vanessa, Ryan Reynolds (whoever that was) and himself. Given two were dead, two weren’t interested, one was on a mission with Agency X and the other quite possibly imaginary, Nathan was Wade’s best option of nookie this side of a blind prostitute. 

Wade, rocking onto one thigh, released a noisy fart. 

A blind prostitute with no sense of smell. 

In the end, Wade made it to two whole minutes – Belle gave Nate the final count, timed with the precision of a quantum stopwatch. Then he stretched, sending the empty falafel boxes tumbling, cracked his back, yawned, and motioned to the shut door. “So, have you decided that you’re too good a man to kill him yet?” 

In all honesty, Nathan had decided that some time ago. The jury was still out on whether this Apocalypse should be shunted into a virtual World-cell for the rest of his days. “I won’t kill him.” Then, before Wade could whoop – “I’ll have to tell Scott and the others where he is though. It would be negligent otherwise. Someone needs to keep an eye on him.” 

“No!” Watching exhilaration fall from Wade’s face was like kicking a disabled puppy. “You can’t! They’re mean to him, Nate. They treat him like a monster. Like he’s always a hair from snapping.” 

Something Wade empathized with, no doubt. Nathan sighed. “I don’t see any other choice.” 

“Me! I’ll do it! I’ll watch him!” 

“You’re an honorary Avenger,” Nate reminded him. “You have a duty to others besides Evan, as do I. You can’t handle this alone.” 

“I won’t! I have Bob, and I have Weasel and Al – “ 

“Exposing Evan to civilians would be asking for disaster.” 

“Bob’s a HYDRA agent!” 

“Whose sole ability is to cram himself into the smallest hiding spaces possible when threatened. He’s a civilian – or as good as.” 

“I’ll tell him you said that! And – hey, you called him Evan.” 

Whoops. “Yes,” said Nathan, glowering at the door as if his gaze could pierce the enigma beyond it. “It seems I did.” 

*** 

By the time they opened the door, both had argued their points until Wade began to forget his and speak in contradictory circles. Nathan took pity on him, and suggested they check on their charge. 

Midnight had been and gone, Evan’s consciousness with it. He curled against the wall. His dark head rested on his knees. With a sliver of drool striping his chin, sliding from the corner of his odd-shaped mouth, he looked close to innocent. 

“Huh,” Wade murmured, volume low as Nate had heard it outside of a stake-out. “Must’ve nattered too long. Baby boy’s nodded off.” 

“He’s not a baby.” Not even a child. He ought to have been a gangly adolescent – although Nathan saw Apocalypse’s build in the boy’s height, the girth of his shoulders, the thick-packed muscle around his waist. This vulnerability on those features? Uncanny. A mockery of human weakness that an Apocalypse would never abide. 

“Everyone’s always _someone_ ’s baby boy.” Wade squatted besides Evan, gently looping arms around him, and stood with a grunt. “He’s mighty heavy though. Wanna lend a hand –“ 

“Wade?” croaked the boy. His eyes cracked, eerie and liquid-dark, reflecting the street light outside. “S’that you?” He crunched forwards to squint at the cyborg filling the doorway, ignoring Wade’s wheeze. “Uh. Is he gonna kill me?” He didn’t sound scared. Just resigned. 

The scowl Wade shot at Nate could’ve melted adamantium. “No. Go back to sleep – it’s time for beddy-byes.” But when he deposited Evan on his bed with an exaggerated huff of effort, pale fingers remained wound around his. Wade tried to pry them off. “Stoppit, my gloves’re dirty –“ 

“Will you be here when I wake up?” 

Wade didn’t answer. 

_Now_ Nathan saw fear. It corroded Apocalypse’s visage like acid. The boy’s mouth crumpled, and he curled like a woodlouse amid his chilly sheets, the digits losing their grip on Wade’s, drooping lax and hopeless. “Oh. Okay.” 

Hell. 

Was Nathan really going to suggest this? Could he really bear spending so much time in proximity to anyone the sight of whose face and body made his fists clench? _Yes_ , he thought, as Wade swallowed and made his decision. Yes he could. 

“I’ll be here,” said Wade, squeezing Evan’s hand. 

Nathan’s came to rest on his back. He didn’t dare touch Evan – not yet – but he could press the tension from Wade’s shoulders, and give the boy a nod, if not a smile. “So will I,” he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Finals have destroyed me!! Any/all motivational comments re. this fic would be appreciated.**


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Here's the next chapter! Sorry it took a while.**

Nathan remembered this place. He remembered that scuff mark on the wall. It was from a time when the pressures of sovereignty were weighing too heavily, and Wade offered the relative bliss of a night spent in company with him, his widescreen, and several cases of beer. Wade had proceeded to practice (and fail miserably at) parkour.

The bulletholes next to it were new. Nathan trailed them, metal fingertips feeding him texture from sensors encoded in their mesh. Miniscule cracks spread out from each hole, each a shattering windowpane frozen in time. Scars in the plasterboard. The damage could never be undone. But, aided with the correct tools (a trowel, some polyfilla, a quick blast of telekinesis) they could at least be smoothed over. 

Some things, unfortunately, were not so easy to repair. 

Wade paused, one foot hovering over the threshold of his room. Nathan, who had been following him mostly out of habit, drew himself up short when he became recipient of a mistrustful glare. 

“Wade? Is something the matter?” 

Evidently, yes. Wade stalked over to him and smacked the flesh side of his chest, hard enough to sting. “Don’t _think_ about asking to come in. This isn’t a get-back-together fic! Half the fandom thinks I’m fucking some skinny dweeb who may or may not be fifteen years old, so you’re old news, Nathan. You hear me? Old. News.” 

Nathan blinked. “I was going to ask if you had any spare pillows, so I could sleep on the floor. I don’t think your couch can take me.” 

“That’s what she said.” Wade paused. “If ‘she’ was an anthropomorphic couch. Well, you’d better try Home Depot – I hear they have a twenty-four hour emergency line. I’m fresh outta stock in the bedding department.” Lie. The bedroom door was loose on its hinges; with the catch slipped, it swung open to reveal a double bed in a state of funky mustiness that could only have accrued through months of disuse. Two pillows sat side by side. 

But then again, Nathan thought, Wade had always stolen his. 

He smiled at the recollection: a small private thing meant only for the two of them. Wade scoffed as if he’d spontaneously developed a psychic X-gene and rolled his eyes. He stomped into his room and slammed the door, something that sounded suspiciously like “sap” trailing him like wafts of bodysweat and falafel. 

“Goodnight Wade,” said Nathan to the empty living room. The lack of reply was disappointing, but hardly unexpected. 

*** 

Morning broke. 

Morning broke whether you wanted it to or not, but when Wade Wilson was around, ‘breaking’ tended to be literal. 

Evan woke up an instant before the smash, propelled by an innate foreboding. He bolted from his cosy nest, spine prickling, fists clenched. Then realized that that deafening reverberation of glass-on-tile had been followed not by the growls of a mutant SWAT team, but by swearing. 

“Fucking fuck damn Morgan Freeman’s _titty sprinkles_ , hook me by the weiner and use me as fishbait…” 

Slowly, tentatively, Evan relaxed. For a man in constant flux at a cellular level, there was a comforting predictability to Wade – namely, that he’d always do what you least expected. In this case, finishing his diatribe with a drawn-out lament to someone called Rob Liefeld, and judging by the sounds (skritching, squeaking, _squelching_ sounds) using his bare feet instead of a dustpan and brush. 

Evan sighed. He sniffed the underarm of his shirt – recoiled; that’d have to be changed soon, for his own peace of mind if no one else’s (Wade would neither notice nor care, and Nathan’s opinion of him could hardly get lower). Then he pushed his messy hair back from his face, and marched out to face the world. And Wade, picking bloody glass from his toes over the trashcan. 

“There’s cleaning stuff under the sink,” Evan said. “Although I guess pointing that out is kinda redundant now.” 

“You guess rightly, grasshopper.” Wade extracted a particularly jagged shard. A bloody spurt followed, gushing before the arteries healed over and the space once punctured with glass refilled with cancerous tissue. Evan winced more than he did, and turned away. His eyes widened when they crossed the hobs. 

“You’re cooking?” 

“Most important meal of the day!” 

“I have leftover takeaway –“ 

“And I have pancake batter!” Wade surveyed the mess at their feet. “Had. I _had_ pancake batter.” Twinkly specks of crystal missed by Wade’s foot soles lay dispersed throughout the golden puddle. Evan sighed. 

“I’ll fetch the mop.” 

“I have a _mop?_ ” 

It was as he was making his sleep-muzzed way to the cupboard that Evan noticed they were missing one seven foot cyborg. “Um. Where’s …” He couldn’t call him Nathan. Too familiar. X-Men always seemed nervous when he used anything but their official codenames – as if that made his address too personal, too _real_. As if it might blur the lines between _friend_ and _foe_ when he inevitably turned on them. “Where’s Cable?” 

“Big boy’s in the shower. Didn’t even ask me to come. How rude is that?” 

Evan decided not to comment. He retrieved the mop, and set to relieving the floor of its new bloody overlay. By the time Nathan emerged, every second Wade didn’t fill with chatter was enunciated by the _ping_ as another splinter popped from his healing soles. It was… _nice_ , having him there. Not that he left time for Evan to get a word in edgeways (or even, it seemed, for himself to breathe). But external contributions were not required. Wade was perfectly happy turning his monologue into a soliloquy. He grumbled about a certain cyborg’s lack of polite sensibilities, diagnosing the cause to… well, Evan _thought_ he said something about a cockroach war in the far future, but he’d only been paying half an ear. 

Nathan didn’t know this, however. “Wade!” he barked, striding forwards. He’d been in the process of pulling his shirt on when he left the bathroom, then frozen halfway when he realized himself to be the topic of conversation. Condensation glistened on thick metal obliques. “I would thank you _not_ to discuss my past in front of Ev-Apocalypse.” 

Ev-Apocalypse opened his mouth to inform Nate that he really didn’t care. Wade beat him to it. “Pull your head out your ass, Priscilla! I mean, damn, it _is_ a mighty fine one, but…” He shook his head. “No! I will not be sidetracked by your seductive allure! Apologize to Evan, now!” 

Nathan tugged his top to his beltline, glowering at Evan all the while. Evan was thankful those vast, toned plains of flesh-woven-titanium were hidden; Wade’s pout betrayed that his own feelings on the matter were somewhat different. “Why. I’ve not said anything of offence. Isn’t it natural, to want to keep details of my personal life from my greatest enemy?” 

“Last time we worked together you said Stryfe was your greatest enemy. You’ve gotta be more consistent, Nathan – else all these arch-nemeses’ll get jealous.” 

“Uh,” said Evan timidly, keeping the blood-soaked mop between him and Cable. “Can I soak this? I don’t want it to stain, and we’re probably gonna be needing it plenty more –Not a threat, not a threat!” This as Nathan’s eyes flared aching-bright blue, after scoping the puddle smeared across the floor and recognizing diluted red. “Just. Y’know. With Wade about…” 

Nathan relaxed. 

Wade did not. “Hey! What’s that supposed to mean?” 

Evan’s mouth worked in silence. The offence racketed with every passing second, Wade hoisting his chin and glaring primly down his nose at him. It was odd, to see him at ease without the mask considering the night before; but then again, given the instability of the man’s brain it was only to be expected that his self-consciousness be in as great a flux as his scars. 

Evan glanced sideways at Nathan’s gun. It had been propped by the sofa arm while Nate took his dip, but now he hefted the metre-long weapon, expressionless as ever. Right now, Evan’s freedom – no, his very existence! – depended on Wade’s good will. If he upset him… If he made him angry… 

Something of his fear must’ve shown in his face. Wade’s scowl faltered. “Evan? Buddy? You okay?” 

“I’m sorry!” he blurted. His knuckles pinched white, the plastic mop handle squeaking as it took the pressure. “I didn’t mean to insult you – “ 

Wade still looked fundamentally confused. “I’m shocked and disgusted that you don’t think me capable of not causing a mess –“ 

“But he’s right,” Nathan rumbled. 

“- But you’re right,” Wade agreed. Then smacked himself in the forehead. “No, I resemble that remark! I was _going_ to say, before Queen of the Desert over here interrupted, that deeply, _deeply_ wounded while I might be, I’m not angry, Evan. Not with you. You know that, don’t you?” 

There was so much hope in his last words that Evan couldn’t bring himself to say no. 

Nathan casually shifted his gun so its barrel rested on his forearm. “Put that down!” Wade snapped, waving his spoon. Pancake batter striped Nathan’s cheek like warpaint. “You’re scaring him! Why’d you even _have_ that gun still anyway?” Nathan looked at him like he was stupid. But he did return its to its previous resting place: the sofa’s arm sagging morosely under its weight. “Good,” said Wade. He hopped off the counter, wincing and wriggling his bare toes as a final chipped triangle of glass worked free. “Evan, you can dump the mop. Alright. Now you’ve both got your hands free, let’s get this show on the road! We have a new batch of pancake mix to make.” 

Evan looked at Wade. Nate looked at Wade. The man’s beam didn’t waver, and he held his dramatic pose until the batter dollop completed its journey to the bottom of Nathan’s chin and plopped quietly to the floor. 

“What do you want us to do?” asked Nathan, once Wade had recovered from his laughter-induced foetal curl. He sidestepped past Evan to grab some kitchen towel, dabbing the smear away. Now it was Wade’s turn to shoot the dry look. 

“What d’you think? Pose for a fireman’s calendar? No, sweetpea; mummy and daddy are going to show our baby boy how pancakes are made.” 

Nathan pinched the bridge of his nose. He pinched it so long and so hard that he managed to erase everything wrong in that sentence from the forefront of his mind, and focussed on the important matters. “Where did you get pancake mix?” 

That was a good question. Evan frowned. He certainly had nothing in stock – besides multiple complimentary soy-sauce packets from the Japanese dial-up delivery down the road. Sure, there was always online shopping – but no one at the X-mansion had given Evan a baseline of culinary skills, and he didn’t dare teach himself for fear of setting off the fire alarm and being forced to evacuate in all his monstrous glory. 

What an irony that would be. Destroyer of the world; imprisoned for burning toast. 

“Oh, I don’t sleep much,” came Wade’s breezy answer. “Nipped to the 7-11 while you layabouts napped.” It was incredible, how jealous Evan felt over the simple luxury of going outside. For all Wade’s bemoaning his lost good looks, Evan would trade their lives in an instant. Or… Perhaps not. Wade had been good to him. Better than anyone. And he’d had his fair share of troubles. Evan wouldn’t wish more sorrow on him. 

“I didn’t sleep,” said Nathan, frowning. “You think I would welcome unconsciousness while an Apocalypse was a single door away?” 

“Well sugarplum, if you’re in it for the long-haul, you’re gonna have to sleep sometime. Like you did last night, in fact. I walked right past you – and can reliably inform you that you still sleep on your right side, snore, and suck your thumb.” A pause. “Okay, so not that last one. Relax, man. You’re just getting old.” 

“That doesn’t make me feel any better,” Nathan muttered. “Belle – why didn’t you wake me?” 

“You needed the rest, Nathan!” Belle’s voice was eerily mechanical, but undeniably feminine. Evan wondered how an AI conceived of such a complex notion as _gender_ , and decided it wasn’t his business. “We’d been tracing the disturbance in the time stream for so long, your reserves were nearly empty…” 

“And now we’ve found it,” growled Nate. A glower at Evan confirmed what he expected the cause of that ‘disturbance’ to be. “I don’t want to lose it again. You stay active at all times, got it? Be my eyes and ears.” 

“Yes, Nate.” The woman’s stencilled eyes twitched to Evan’s, uncanny and doll-like. “Sorry about him, kiddo. He’s always like this in the mornings.” Wade, sucking his mixing spoon, nodded. It bobbed in his mouth like a conductor’s baton. 

“Confirmed. But you’re not yourself when you’re hungry, Nate – grab a snickers! Or failing that: come help with the pancakes!” There was little choice when Wade used _that_ tone. Evan sloped to his side and took the proffered eggbox. The cardboard felt faintly damp, which given Wade’s artistic distribution of batter across walls, ceiling, and floor, was understandable. When he lifted an egg at Wade’s command it was ridiculously light and fragile, shell cool and perfectly smooth. He was almost too nervous to tap it on the side of the next jug – plastic, this time – that Wade pulled from his shopping bag. 

Scarred hands closed over his, warm from continual regeneration. “Like this,” said Wade, and brought the dented egg down on the jug’s lip with a practiced _crack_. Yolk and white slithered in a gelatinous stream. “Now scrape inside – get all the goop out. Waste not, want not. That’s it.” It was… slimier than he expected. Egg-innards tacked to his fingers, gumming them with amphibian-webs. Evan shuddered. But he couldn’t deny the flicker of pride that ignited when Wade let him handle the next egg solo. 

”Okay,” Wade said, picking shell from the mix with a fork while Evan stared at the dribbling sludgy waterfall that poured down the outside of the bowl. “A little overenthusiastic. But – hey! Hey, what’s that look for? It’s not the end of the world.” 

Evan wiped sticky fingers on his jeans. “I can’t do anything right,” he observed, with the quiet detachment of one convinced. Wade’s snort was almost enough to make him doubt himself though. 

”Dude, super-strength and cooking take a while to gel. Don’t beat yourself up over broken eggs – or cry over spilt milk, for that matter. Anyway, I’m with you. What could go wrong?” 

There were so many answers to that question. Evan glanced to Nate. Following the gaze, Wade’s expression of gentle aggravation folded into something harsher. “Hey you. What’re you still doing all the way over there? Didn’t I say to help?” Nathan, more experienced in denying Wade’s whims – a useful skill to cultivate, when those whims ranged from stealing thongs off clothes lines, to getting people he didn’t like accused of stamp forgery – remained where he was. Wade levelled the spoon at him. “Uh-uh! You eat, you work, pal!” 

“I’ll acquire my own sustenance.” Nathan might not say as much as Wade, but his tone revealed infinitely more. Evan winced, as Wade waggled the spoon in fury. 

“Oh, c’mon. You think he’s gonna poison you? I’ll be eating the same stuff!” 

“You have a healing factor.” 

“And you have a nine-inch rod rammed up your – wait. This is deflecting. You’re deflecting, aren’t you! You’re just embarrassed because there’s a fifteen year old kid here who can’t break eggs right. But you’re even worse than that!” 

It could’ve been Evan’s imagination, but he swore Nathan was blushing. “In my future, such skills were not required –“ 

Wade’s voice turned gleeful. “Yadda, yadda! Make a note, Evan – we’ve finally found something the almighty Nathan Summers can’t do. Cook!” 

Nate’s riposte was interrupted by a bleep from his arm. “Memo noted,” Belle intoned, and when she caught Evan watching, shot him a wink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **I hate finals. But I hope you enjoyed this! Please leave comments; they motivate like nothing else.**


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Ho hum. It's been a while - my writing inspiration for Deadpool-fic has hit at an all time low. Getting back into the swing of it now! I decided you all needed a reminder why Cablepool is the best pairing in this goddam franchise - the answer being, of course, the _drama_.**

The pancakes weren’t awful. 

Eating them under Nathan’s watchful glare was, but it could’ve been worse. Evan found a shell fragment with his teeth. The crunch snapped loud enough to draw Wade’s valiant one-man conversation to a halt. “Missed a bit?” he inquired. Evan chewed thoughtfully. 

“Adds texture,” he said. “I like it.” 

Wade guffawed at that: a laugh which emanated from deep in his belly and gurgled up past diaphragm and lungs before being expelled in a giddy rush. “See Nate?” He pummelled the cyborg between the shoulders, hard enough to pound anyone who wasn’t seven foot and proportionally broad headfirst into their breakfast. “No villain would appreciate this delectable juxtaposition of eggshell and pancake. That’s the mark of true heroism.” 

“Hm.” If not convinced, Nathan at least sounded amused. “It’s the mark of something, alright. Poor taste by my reckoning.” 

Wade waved him off, scoffing as he shovelled more pancake into his mouth. He’d single-handedly polished off eight, and was only just starting to slow. His mask, rolled up to the bridge of his nose, was slathered liberally in pancake batter, bacon grease, and maple syrup. “Nonsense. You’d never had ice cream before I came to Providence – or Mexican. You don’t deserve an opinion.” 

Nathan’s smirk squirmed into something resembling a smile, bought about by recollections of a time long passed. “I’d never had brainfreeze before either.” 

Wade elbows him in the ribs. “Yeah well. There’s gotta be a first time for everything. You oughta be grateful that I gave up my valuable time to show you what you’d been missing –“ 

“You replaced all of my paperwork with takeaway menus until I agreed to have dinner with you.” 

“Damn right I did. Because nothing gets through that thick skull of yours like messing with your work.” Evan, out-of-practice with human interaction, nevertheless sensed that the hitherto friendly bickering had taken a swift turn for the serious. Sure enough, not even the final sloppy bite of pancake could soften Wade’s scowl. “You always care so much about work,” he said, spitting flecks of half-chewed batter over the red ring of the stove hob. “Is it just the world you’d sacrifice yourself for? Or would you _kill yourself_ over a pile of unfinished filing too?” 

Evan, awkwardly perched at the dinner table, wondered if he was supposed to feign spontaneous deafness. He looked instead at the mess on the oven. Wade had wolfed through his courses so fast that the hob had yet to cool; the spat gobbets sizzled and hissed, drying onto the glass like smallpox scars. 

Watching them crackle, Evan surrendered himself to an evening of scrubbing. He doubted Wade’d pitch in, and the idea of him and Nathan teaming up to tackle the aftermath of the whirlwind that was Deadpool was laughable. “Y’know what,” he said, before Nathan could spout some well-intentioned but short-sighted witticism that would stoke Wade further. “I’m full. Can I wash your plates?” 

“Let Summers wash his own,” Wade grumbled. He took Evan up on the offer himself though. “Huh. Right pair we make. I wear the maid outfit, you do all the work.” 

“I don’t mind,” Evan lied. He even said it with a smile. It was true in a way: he didn’t mind keeping house, if it meant longer in their company. However, for all his flaws – flightiness and dubious personal hygiene being the tip of the iceberg – Wade did have the uncanny ability to tell when an emotion ran deeper than its performance. It helped that Evan’s execution of cheerful servitude was probably faulty. After all, he’d only had the mirror to practice in front of for the past couple of months. But whatever the cause, Wade’s own expression crumpled. 

“You’re not happy, are you?” 

Evan should’ve known that his attempt to help would make things worse. Wasn’t that what he did best? Ducking his head, he snatched Nathan’s plate from under him and scurried off to the far end of the kitchen with his load. “I’m fine,” he told the faucet as he clunked it on to full. “Honestly, Wade. Of course I’m happy. After everything you’ve done for me… You took me in. You fed me pancakes. I’m more grateful than words can say.” 

“Ha. Sap.” But despite the flippant retort, Evan sensed Wade’s eyes lingering on him. That gaze prickled his nape far longer than it ought to, belonging as it did to a man with a six-second attention span. Tugging at the insides of his cheeks with his teeth, Evan tried to focus on the task at hand. He ignored the voice in his head that chastised him for making Wade worry, and reminded him that the world would be a much simpler place – a better place – if he simply didn’t exist. 

His furious scrubbing soon filled the sink in suds. Collecting the batter-stained bowl and pan, Evan added them to the frothing heap and pulled out his trusty wire scrubbie. If Nathan was perturbed by the image of the almighty Apocalypse snapping on pink washing up gloves, his only tell was a crooked eyebrow. 

Wade meanwhile, deemed the sloshing loud enough for him to impart his next words to Nathan without being overheard. “We need to do something drastic, Nate. I fear this is beyond the powers even of my pancakes.” 

Nathan nodded. “I agree. Pancakes aren’t going to keep the Apoca… Uh, Evan, tranquil for long. We need to look into more permanent solutions.” 

Wade smacked his shoulder. The fleshy one. He’d learnt the hard way that hitting the other led to busted knuckles, and Nathan complaining that Wade’d dripped blood down his shirt. “I _mean_ , numbnuts, that this calls for a proper intervention. We’ve got to give the kid a change of scenery. Get him out and about, into the world…” This time, his own palm was the recipient of the blow. “I’m taking Ellie to the park later. Let’s bring Evan along!” 

Nathan’s eyebrows performed a sidewinder-esque wriggle up towards his browline. “You would take the Apocalypse. To play with your daughter.” 

“Hey, invite Hope! Make it a threeway thing. Only not, y’know, _threeway_ -threeway. Because they’re kids and that’s gross. And uh, speaking of threeways. How’s Dom?” 

“Hope and Dom are fine.” 

His reply came far too fast. Add to that that Nathan was appraising the far wall rather than Wade, and you had the perfect equation for a signature Summers-deflection. Wade sighed. “When was the last time you contacted them?” 

Nathan quirked a corner of his mouth. “In my timestream, or yours?” 

Scowling, Wade scooched off the counter and padded over, his bare feet silent on the tiles like the paws of a big hunting-cat. “Don’t you gobbledegook me, mister. I’m not in the mood. You can’t just _ditch_ people like that, y’know? Dom and Hope deserve better.” A short pause. “Heck, _I_ deserve better, and it’s not often I say that. Geez, Nate. Always running off to save the world, never looking back at those you leave behind. This is why nobody likes you.” 

The well-worn argument bit as deep as it always did. Nathan ceased his contemplation of the cracked plasterboards, which still leaked insulation from the last time Wade’d lived here. Funny, the difference between this safehouse’s main two occupants: Wade, who marked his territory noisily and messily where ever he went, sometimes not just in the figurative sense; and Evan, who occupied the same space without really _living_ in it. The Spartan, utilitarian simplicity of the apartment was broken by the odd domestic touch – cushions on the couch, personalized shower curtains, the occasional crayon doodle on the walls. But that was all Wade. If it weren’t for the textbooks, opened to a set of calculations more suited to Tony Stark than a schoolboy, Nathan would never have guessed that Evan stayed here at all. 

He found Wade’s white masked eyes. Those blank circles thinned into tilted knife blades as he glared. “Are you angry at me for putting the world first?” Nathan asked, rich voice rumbling with the effort of staying soft. “You know I care. For Dom, for Hope, for Irene and Scott… And for you. I will prove it in a thousand ways. But if I have to forego everything I care about for the greater future good, I will.” 

The fury percolating Wade’s mask was palpable, even as his scarred lips stretched into a grotesque smile. “Oh, I know. You’ve proved that often enough. Well, you can stay here and brood about whether the world’s worth saving if it means being alone. Me and Evan are gonna go out and enjoy it while it lasts.” He made to turn away. Nathan caught his wrist. 

“Don’t ask me to be something I’m not, Wade.” 

He could feel the muscles in Wade’s forearm, trembling under duress from the force with which he was clenching his fists. “Why not? You ask it of me all the time.” 

“You’re a killer, Wade. It’s different.” 

“I know I might call you ‘GI-Jesus’ sometimes, but honestly, you aren’t exactly God’s Great Gift to mankind yourself. Remember Six-Pack? Remember X-Force?” 

Try as he might to prevent this conflict from escalating, Nathan was fast losing his patience. Dealing with Wade’s brand of incessant infuriation took the willpower of a saint, and despite his occasional claims to martyrdom, Nathan was – as Wade had pointed out – anything but. He gritted his teeth. “I remember, Wade. And I recognize my flaws – which is why I strive constantly to move past them.” 

“And if you’d been around for the past couple of years, you’d know I’ve been doing the same!” 

That gave Nathan pause. Wade, surprised by his own outburst, yanked out of his grip and stormed to the figure hunched over the sink, who half-heartedly pretended not to hear them. “Evan. C’mon, let’s head out for a walk. You must be going stir-crazy.” 

“Y-you’re serious?” stuttered the boy. The monster-in-the-form-of-a-boy; Nathan couldn’t afford to think of him as anything less. “But… But, what if people see me?” 

Wade gestured to his own face. The lower half was its usual poxy lava-flow of scabbing sores, teeth the only static part. Right now, bared as they were in the world’s most terrifying grin or grimace, he looked like an Escher painting brought to life: a hypnotic fusion of mutable, ephemeral impossibility and concrete reality. “I’ll take my mask off, give ‘em something else to stare at. Now c’mon. You’re gonna love Ellie – she’s just the cutest little bean. Got a smile that would melt Doctor Doom’s heart! Although for some reason Preston won’t let me take her to Latveria to test that theory…” 

Nathan watched from afar. He and Wade were separated by the counter and approximately five paces of kitchen floor, but there might as well have been continents between them. 

What was it Wade had said? _I’ve been doing the same?_ And who knew – he might be telling the truth. 

He had a daughter now: a reason to forge a more stable life than that offered by the mercenary business. And he worked with the Avengers – not just as a self-proclaimed member, as Nathan had first suspected. Nathan knew both these things. But until now, they’d just been superficial factoids, floating amorphous without any anchors to reality. 

Nathan collected information on everything and everyone. It was what he did. There was a time when he was the strongest telepath in the world, able to read even Charles Xavier – and now his powers had been reduced, his data-collection methods had merged synthetic means with mutant ones to give him a similar semblance of omniscience. As such, he was aware of Wade’s new profession – just as he was aware of Evan’s disappearance, and what had happened at Genosha. But knowledge without application was about as useful as a gun without bullets. It could still be wielded, but only as a blunt instrument. 

Perhaps Wade’s venture into heroism wasn’t going to be as short-lived a foray Nathan had assumed? Perhaps Wade’s pitiful attempts to be _good_ , which usually led to him scuppering himself and falling further than ever before, were finally starting to pay off? Nathan was too intelligent to believe in karma, or even that effort by necessity reaped reward. But he could appreciate happy coincidences when they occurred, and the bubble of pride swelling in his chest was of a magnitude that it surprised even him. 

Wade really was doing better. 

He was also protecting the most dangerous creature ever known to humanity – but hey. Baby steps. 

Nathan cleared his throat as Wade hustled Evan for the door, stripping the boy’s sopping gloves and flinging them haphazardly sinkwards. One splatted on the window; the other hit the stove and started to sizzle. Nathan rescued it before it could stick. “I’m coming,” he announced. Nodded to Evan, who looked peaky at the mere prospect of leaving the sanctuary-come-prison he’d been sequestered in for so long. “He requires adult supervision.” 

“Oh, and what am I? A cactus?” Wade crossed his arms, pulling his mask down to his chin – then remembered his promise to Evan and stripped it off entirely, stuffing it into a pouch with a scowl. The accompanying shift in his mannerisms would’ve been too subtle for anyone but Nathan and Evan to notice; Wade hunched his shoulders slightly, as if to compress his bulk in on itself, then realized what he was doing and puffed up like a strutting cockerel instead. Once certain he’d hidden any sense of vulnerability or maskless nudity, he lifted his glare to pin on Nathan. “Preston’ll be there. We don’t need you.” 

Four little words that could puncture the hardest of hearts. Luckily, Nathan’s techno-organics meant that any such holes were swiftly filled with living titanium. “I’m sure you don’t,” he said. “But I’m not doing this for your sake. I have to keep the boy in my sights - that’s all.” He meant it too. Because Wade had been his project as much as Providence had, and if his guidance had set Wade onto a positive path, the project could be considered a success. Further interference would add unnecessary obstacles. 

What with their shared past, the bundle of the unspoken emotions that sizzled between them like electrical signals from a raw nerve, the memory of Wade’s flesh on his tongue… Cable and Deadpool’s pictures headed the dictionary definition of _complex_. Right now, that was the last thing Wade needed. He deserved the simplicity of the life he’d carved out for himself and his daughter. How unfair would it be for Nathan to sabotage Wade’s honest streak by outstaying his welcome, all because he _missed_ him? 

And so despite this internal conflict, Nathan couldn’t help but feel grateful to Evan. If it weren’t for him, he’d have no excuse to stay by Wade’s side at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Thanks to everyone who comments. I love you all.**

**Author's Note:**

> **So this is really a little taster of a long-fic I'm plotting at the moment. Please don't expect an update too soon - I'm in the middle of finals prep, and I have a soul-destroying number of Guardians of the Galaxy WIPs awaiting my tender attentions.**
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> **If you enjoyed this though, please let me know! I appreciate every comment, and while I won't be able to get the next chapter up for a while, hearing people's thoughts is always a delight and a motivation.**
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> ****


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